


Instincts

by lilacsandlavender



Series: Enola Holmes One-Shots [4]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Random & Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27309475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsandlavender/pseuds/lilacsandlavender
Summary: Enola Holmes has been asked by her brother to help solve a case, and one of the main potential suspects turns out to be someone she's grown close with.
Series: Enola Holmes One-Shots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993813
Comments: 4
Kudos: 99





	Instincts

Enola Holmes pushed the door to Wilson’s Artifacts and Antiques open and squinted in effort to adjust to the dimly-lit shop in front of her. She immediately felt the need to sneeze, and as the disorderly arrangement of products met her sight, she couldn’t help but have the fleeting thought of wondering why anyone would _want_ to steal from a store like this. Or maybe the question was how the store owner even knew he’d been robbed. 

Two days ago Enola had decrypted the message _If you’re not busy with a case, meet me at Limehouse Lane tomorrow at 11_ in the _Daily Chronicle_ , and she’d immediately known it was from her brother Sherlock attempting to make contact. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her, especially since the two rarely talked and never reached out. And on top of that, it was odd that he’d wanted to meet in such a secluded and run-down alley. 

It turned out that the older Holmes sibling needed help with a case. It wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ solve it, but instead he’d claimed that he was currently working on another pressing case that also required his attention. 

So Enola had agreed to work on the mystery, though begrudgingly solely on the basis that she felt like she was doing Sherlocks’ dirty work. She was second to no one, so she did not appreciate her brother treating her as if she were his sidekick. Ultimately, pursuing justice was the driving factor that made her ignore her lingering annoyance that Sherlock had required her to keep him informed on the case until she’d cracked it. 

“Hello?” she called out, and a moment later, a stout, middle-aged man with fraying grey hair appeared from a back room, wiping his hands on the brown apron hanging around his full middle. 

“We’re not quite open yet, miss,” he informed her from behind the counter, and Enola suppressed a groan, realizing that Sherlock hadn’t clued him in about her. 

Sticking out her hand, Enola put on her most businesslike face and said, “Enola Holmes, at your service.” She had contemplated for a split moment about playing the assistant to Sherlock role, but then decided that if she was helping work the case, it was only fair that she take some credit. From the time she’d solved the mystery of who was after Viscount – now newly Lord – Tewkesbury, she’d been steadily building a reputation for herself as a sleuth. Anyway, seeing how well things hadn’t turned out last time she’d lied about her identity, Enola knew it would just be easier to tell the truth. 

The man arched an eyebrow and looked her over apprehensively. He shook her hand and identified himself as Edward Wilson. “Holmes, you say?” 

“Yes,” Enola shifted in her sky blue dress, annoyed at the fact that if she were to dress in boys’ clothes, which were much more comfortable, she wouldn’t be taken seriously. “My brother unfortunately had to hand over much of the investigation to me. Never mind the reason. I hear that this shop was recently broken into and stolen from. What was taken? Do you have any leads or suspects?”

Her bluntless must have taken the stunned the store owner to some degree because there was a pregnant pause between her question and his reply, but Enola wasn’t surprised. She knew she didn’t act as typical woman of London should.

He overcame his surprise quickly, and his face darkened as he scowled and said, “Yes, there was a vintage tea set taken from the back over there. Was worth quite a bit too – a collectors kind of thing, you know? I keep close tabs on those kind of items. As for suspects, the break-in was at night while I was at home, so it could have been anybody. That’s why I sent for Sherlock.”

Enola suppressed the urge to scream. No wonder Sherlock had dragged her into this. There was virtually nothing she had to work with.

“Can you think of anyone who would want the set? Did you see anyone suspicious around the store that day?”

Considering London was filled with thousands of people, Enola didn’t have much hope that anybody would have stood out among the foot traffic of the city. For a moment, when Wilson shook his head, confirming her suspicions, she almost sighed and told him she’d do her best, but then his back straightened and he slapped the counter in epiphany. “I got it!” he exclaimed. “There actually was this one boy...” 

Enola watched him as he began to walk back and forth, stroking his beard and shaking his head slowly in concentration. 

“Yeah, yeah...He had brown hair; was about 170 cm tall. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but if I had to guess, I’d say the lad was around eighteen. Sharp jawline for sure. That’s all I can remember.” 

Though the truth that there had to be dozens of citizens fitting that description scattered across the city, Enola felt a slight glimmer of hope. _At least now I have a target demographic_ she mused. 

Out loud she said, “Are you _positive_ that’s it? Do you remember what he was wearing?” in attempt to milk the man’s memory dry. She truly loved a challenge, but she’d need to mentally note all the information she could gather. 

“Well actually...” His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “He was wearing this beige suit and matching pants. That can’t be a common factor, right?”

Enola felt her stomach fall at his words. He was right. From her time in the past (and also currently) spent running around London swapping clothes with any boy who would for a couple pounds, she was very in-tune with the men’s fashion, and one statement that she could state with certainty was that all-white outfits – or any light monochrome sets, for that matter – were rare to see on the average citizen. Something to do with white thread being rarer and more costly than black. 

It wasn’t much to speculate on, but the description fit someone Enola had grown close with. The pieces were all there, and they fit horrifyingly well together: the hair, the age, the clothes. Enola couldn’t start to fathom the idea of Tewkesbury committing any sort of crime that might hurt someone else, and she hated the idea that the first friend she’d really ever had in London might be guilty of petty theft. 

It didn’t make sense that Tewkesbury would need to steal anything. His family had to be some of the wealthiest people in the country. But maybe he’d gone stir-crazy, holed up in the Hall, all but forced back into stuffy lessons with tutors and learning how to be an active member in Parliament; or even worse, Enola thought with a shudder of dread, perhaps he’d just snapped. 

Her mind began to make up unsolicited scenarios, and they disturbed her more than she’d like to admit. She became distracted from reality _just_ long enough to accidentally permit her emotions to flit across her face, because the words “What? What is it?” interrogated her ears, and she’d had to shake her head almost comically to cover for her mistake. 

She backpedaled too late; Wilson leaned towards her. “No, you had a thought. You know something. Do you know who took my merchandise?” Without pausing for a breath he continued, “If you’re trying to protect someone, I understand, but at least give me a name so I can take care of them myself.”

The dark cloud had returned, passed over the shopkeeper’s demeanor. His voice had grown gruff, and Enola noticed that he’d picked up a pencil and was clutching it so tightly his arm trembled. 

She didn’t think he was an immediate threat, but it was clear that he was irked about the whole situation and wanted answers that she couldn’t provide until she’d ruled out her leading suspect. His determined stare sent a shiver down her spine, and with a hasty promise that she’d start the investigation immediately, Enola bolted out of the shop and headed towards Basilwether Hall.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ 

“Tell me you have no clue what I’m talking about if I start describing a tea set decorated with roses.”

Enola had crept onto Basilwether grounds in hopes to find Tewkesbury somewhere on the property’s extensive garden, knowing full well that any free time he could salvage was spent among the flora he’d probably planted himself. 

Indeed, she’d spotten him quickly, him kneeling in front of a long row of English lavender, face all but swallowed by the plant as he appeared to be inspecting it for something only he would know. 

Tewkesbury’s head snapped up at the sound of her voice, startled from the abrupt disturbance in the quiet air. He laughed when he saw who it was, snatched a few loose stalks of the purple plant laying next to him he’d cut, and as he stood up, he offered them eagerly to Enola. 

“What ever happened to ‘hello’?”

Enola was hit with a sense of deja vu from the setting of her sneaking up on Tewkesbury as he was surrounded by various flowers. It was all-too-familiar. 

“Please just answer the question.”

He seemed amused yet perplexed at her serious tone and dropped his extended arm, flowers still in tow. “Well, that depends. Should I know about some tea cups? The last one’s I’ve seen are the ones Mother had the servants put away after afternoon tea time.”

And as Enola stared at the boy – well, if she was being honest with herself, he’d earned the title of man a while ago – she realized the minute she’d assumed Tewkesbury guilty had been a minute too long. Here he was in front of her, dressed in gardener’s overalls, with a grin that she was forced to mentally label as the stupid just so she’d have an excuse to not kiss him. If they weren’t out in the open, she would have. 

His hair had grown out again, and now as it stook out every which way, a leaf or three entangled in the mess, it reminded Enola that he’d had always been, and was, a gentle soul who’d always choose picking flowers in a field than picking the pockets of anyone on the streets. Her instincts, not bias, told her that Tewkesbury was innocent, and those instincts hadn’t let her down yet. 

He reeked of lavender as she allowed herself to hug him in relief, but she pushed her happiness to the side momentarily when it came to her attention that she’d have to explain her forward gesture of warmth. 

Drawing back, she sighed. “You’re suspected of theft-”

_“What!?”_ Tewkesbury’s eyebrows flew up in surprise and horror. 

“Well, not officially-”

“By _who_?”

“Well, erm...” Enola hated this part. She averted her gaze and glanced at a patch of poppies a couple yards away. “Me.”

She felt his defenses rising without needing to see his face, and she hated herself in that instance. 

“What’s going on?” Tewkesbury had put distance between them, and Enola immediately missed the shared body heat their touch had created. 

Quickly explaining the situation, Enola was successful in diffusing the lord’s queue of questions. “So no, I didn’t really suspect you of anything,” she said. “But until I find who _did_ do it, I’m going to need proof that it wasn’t you. My brother Sherlock is technically on this case as well, and like I said, it’s only a matter of time until he learns about the clothing clue and starts trying to track down anyone fitting that description.” 

“What kind of proof would you need? Like, an alibi?”

“Yes, precisely. Where were you last Wednesday night, and is there anyone who can attest to your claim?”

Enola was ready for Tewkesbury to tell her he’d been in Basilwether Hall. She was ready for him to tell he’d been out of town. What she wasn’t prepared for was a hearty chuckle and the relapse of that stupid grin. 

“Am I truly such terrible company that you’ve completely erased our last time spent together out of your memory?”

Pausing, Enola was left confused. The last time she’d seen Tewkesbury was- _Oh._ She hadn’t forgotten that Tewkesbury had come to visit her in her boarding house. That had been a lovely evening in the house’s parlor, chatting away in front of a fire while nibbling away at scones. He’d left at almost midnight, and he’d told her that he’d have have to have her sneaking talent to get back into the Hall unnnoticed. She’d just forgotten, in the excitement of the case, the exact _date_ of his visit. 

Then it hit her: _she was his alibi._

Well...that complicated things. 

“I, uh, no, no, of course not,” she fumbled. “I...I promise I’ll figure this out.” She started to walk away in haste but turned around before reaching the end of the row of lavender flowers. She skipped up to Tewkesbury, and after a half-hearted scan around the immediate premises, quickly pecked his cheek. 

“Call me paranoid, but just promise me that if you need to go into London you won’t wear beige?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. 

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Enola spent the rest of the next two days tirelessly working on the antiques case. Her feet were beginning to get sore. There might’ve been bags under her eyes if she hadn’t made herself go to bed at a reasonable hour each night. She had made some progress, but the suspect list was still unfathomably large. Wednesday evening came, and Enola retired once more to her room, ready to take off her corset and collapse in bed. 

Apparently Sherlock had other plans. 

Enola almost jumped when she opened her door to find her brother leaning against the window, looking at her as if he’d predicted when she’d arrive. What _was_ it with her family showing up in her room without notice? There was a perfectly functioning parlor downstairs! “What do you want?” she asked, striding past him to put her belongings away. 

“Well hello to you too, dear sister.”

She shot him an exasperated look. 

“I come bearing news regarding the case we’re jointly working to solve.”

_Yes, where there are essentially a hundred potential suspects. That’s the one._ Enola bit her tongue. 

Sherlock ignored her silence and took it as a cue to keep talking. “I know you’ve been working very hard on it; nearly everyone I talk to you’ve gotten to first.” He was trying to appeal to her ego. Enola stayed quiet. “Anyway, I talked to the shopkeeper again this morning, and he gave me an tidbit that you know of _and_ didn’t inform me about?”

She knew what was coming next. “And what was that?” 

“Cream-colored clothes? I talked with some other store owners around the area, and I think I have two solid suspects. One of them is a meddlesome lad that’s been shoplifting every other week, and the other may surprise you. You know the marquess who ran away from home a few months back? He does sound like trouble-”

Enola couldn’t stop herself. “It’s not Tewkesbury.”

Sherlock paused at the sound of Enola calling the lord by his surname.

“He has an alibi.” She gulped before adding, “And it’s me. He came to visit me last Wednesday night.”

Sherlock stared at his younger sister, surprised that she was still in contact with the boy. He and Mycroft had been half-joking when they’d last discussed the idea of their baby sister courting someone in the ranks of nobility, but now that he thought about it, the two might be a good match after all. They _did_ sound like they’d get along: they had both disappeared from their homes, unsatisfied with their futures, and he was vaguely aware that flowers were an interest to both as well.

He heard Enola’s breathing become labored with worry, and with the sincere gleam in her eyes, he was starting to believe her. Something about the urgency in her voice along with the fact that Enola took justice seriously as he did told him he could trust her word. However, that didn’t stop him from prying for more details.

“Visited you, ‘eh?”

His sister mistook his blooming interest as skepticism. “We had a nice chat in the parlor,” she said curtly, knowing that people who went into elaborate detail when questioned were often guilty and had something to hide.

“And you can verify his whereabouts for the whole night?”

Enola was taken aback before grasping the fact that in order for Tewkesbury to be fully irrelevant to the investigation, he needed to be counted for all hours of the night.

Torn. She was torn between telling the truth and lying. She knew that Tewkesbury had gone straight back to Basilwether Hall because he’d needed to sleep before dealing with the law the next day - he’d told her as much when he’d left - but there wasn’t any reason for Sherlock to believe that. Sure, she knew honesty was the best policy, but the thought of the boy who was one with nature standing in trial? He wouldn’t make it out alive.

No, she’d lie. And what she formulated on the spot her mind didn’t have time to process before the words were out.

“Yes. He was with me the whole night. Right here. In this room.”

Sherlock didn’t try to hide his shock this time. _“He spent the night?”_ Enola’s cheeks burned bright red, and that’s when he knew she was lying.

Enola wouldn’t have been embarrassed about an incident she wasn’t sorry about, and welcoming a person her age of the opposite gender in her bedroom while unchapperoned would definitely have been her idea _and_ decision. She was blushing because of the implication of her words, and it clicked to Sherlock that she’d grown close enough with the marquess to develop feelings for him. Therefore, she knew him well-enough to know that he wasn’t guilt of the crime at hand. If she said he was innocent, then Sherlock wasn’t going to waste any more energy into that lead.

“Well,” he mused, secretly loving her embarrassment over her crush (as any sibling would), “I suppose I’ll look further into the other delinquent adolescent...”

“Oh, wonderful,” Enola hastily said, all but shooing him out the door. “Keep me updated, will you? Thank you.”

The moment he was gone she sank to the floor, breathing out a sigh of relief. She’d done it. She and Sherlock had both been forced to suspect Tewkesbury of a crime he hadn’t committed, but the lord was lucky to have her as a friend. (Or maybe as something more?)

“You owe me, nincompoop,” Enola muttered, unaware that at the same moment, Sherlock was chuckling to himself as he left the boarding house.

What could either say? The Holmes detectives’ instincts were never wrong.


End file.
